The spider and the fly
by Obviously I'm Sherlocked
Summary: "It's your fault," Anger smouldered in the detective's voice, his fists clenched tightly as his whole body shook with new found rage. Molly shrank back in her seat, the blazing eyes of the sleuth bore right through her and she flinched, lost for words. "You got my John killed!" Post-Reichenbach with a twist


Hello!  
I know I haven't updated my account in forever but this should be the start of something good! please bare with me for each chapter because (as you might have guessed) I am an incredibly slow writer!  
hope you enjoy and please review because i have a hungry family to feed!

"The Spider turned him round about, and went into his den,  
For well he knew the silly Fly would soon come back again;  
So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner sly,  
And set his table ready, to dine upon the Fly."

- passage from  
'The spider and the fly'  
by Mary Howitt  
_

Molly Hooper sat at her table in St. Bart's Hospital. It was her Lunch break now but she wasn't eating. It was silent. She could easily go down to join the others in the positively noisy canteen, or even go out into London's broad streets and dine at her favourite cafe if it wasn't for this crushing sadness that washed over her pretty little head.

The man sat before her had grey, sleep deprived eyes and hollowed cheeks. His once flushed and healthy skin was now pasty and unshaven. He had once looked very happy; very happy indeed.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock Holmes croaked, his voice barely a broken whisper. Molly swallowed thickly and forced her eyes to meet the dull, empty ones that had been so shiny before.

"I was about to ask you the same thing," she remarked darkly, no little chirpy laugh, no smile. She was too tired to try by now.

A ghost of a smirk twitched on Sherlock's lips and he cast his red, swollen eyes down and pulled his jaw tight.

"No..." he sighed "No, I'm not," the detective breathed shakily. He clenched his teeth until it obviously hurt so he didn't let out a mournful whimper. The stoic man was so vulnerable now; he couldn't control his petty little emotions. Silly man.

Poor Miss Hooper could feel the icy dread twist in her stomach. Her body went stone cold and she shivered, swallowing the lump in her throat.

"It's…" She began, taking a deep breath "It's him…isn't it?" Her voice sounded small and distant, the poor girl could barely bring her eyes up to look at the sleuth's face.

Something terrible happened three years ago. Poor little Molly Hooper.

It was her fault.

They all knew it was, the clever detective figured it out and to be devastatingly honest he was part of it too.

Three years ago our clever little detective was baffled by the Richard Brook case. The detective knew he was going to die but he wasn't aware of the threat to his precious army doctor if he didn't accept to commit suicide.

Molly watched Sherlock's eyes darken further and it seemed his whole face pulled into an expression of pure agony. They hadn't talked about the incident before now and the mortician wonder if she should back off.

"Yes," came a broken whisper. It took our little Molly quite the while to figure out that it came from Sherlock Holmes. The man with a mask of dispassion. His mask was cracking right before sweet little Molly's eyes.

The youngest Holmes lifted his pale, thin hands to his face, digging his palms into his eye sockets. His lean frame hunched over the desk, wiry shoulders trembling and the quiet room was filled with the sound of his pitiful sobs.

Poor little Molly watched the head of curls nod mournfully as he cried, "It's about him…" the mismatched voice managed through gasps. The broken man couldn't stand to even look up at Miss Hooper.

Our poor mortician gazed down upon the sobbing wreck in front of her. She felt helpless. Of course there was nothing she could do to help. It was both their faults.

John Watson was dead.

It would never have happened if Sherlock had jumped. But, no. The silly detective got talked into not complying; he was encouraged as 'wise words of wisdom' to just ignore any commands and not to jump. And guess who gave him that advice?

They thought it would make no difference.

They weren't to know that the snipers went off. John Watson was shot before the Detective's situation could even be explained to him.

In the end, the great Sherlock Holmes was just as ordinary and stupid as everybody else.

Poor little Molly Hooper couldn't stop blaming herself, naturally. But she had the right to. Stupid girl. It was her who told the great detective not to jump, as if that would make any difference to anything anyway.

Sherlock rested his head onto the hard wood of the desk, still uselessly wailing to himself, spilling out curses and 'what ifs' and 'if only I just' this and 'If only I hadn't done' that. It seemed our high functioning sociopath couldn't control what was coming out of his mouth, it was a mess of things he had wanted to say and things he should have said.

Good little Molly sat there in complete stunned silence and absorbed every crippling word as it flowed from the man opposite her. No matter how many times she jumped when he raised his voice or how much she fidgeted in her guilt, she still listened.

"I should have died!" He wailed, clasping his hands over his face "It's my fault!" The poor man seemed to writhe in his own sort of pain, burying his head in his arms,

"I want him to come back," He was mourning again now, his voice echoing in soft whimpers, "He can't be dead…" Sherlock Holmes lifted his head to look straight into the terrified eyes of poor Molly. She gasped quietly at the sight of them: bloodshot, as though a capillary had burst; his pale cheeks were tear-streaked and tears smeared down from his nose and over his mouth too.

"It's your fault," Anger smouldered in the detective's voice, his fists clenched tightly as his whole body shook with new found rage. Molly shrank back in her seat, the blazing eyes of the sleuth bore right through her and she flinched, lost for words.

"**You** got my John killed!"

Poor Little Molly Hooper wiped away a fresh streak of tears as she stumbled past the darkened shops and lively bars on the streets of London. The poor girl was still in shock.

Sherlock Holmes had left in a hurry after he had accused the pitiful mortician, leaving her shocked and speechless by his uncharacteristically harsh words.

Maybe it was her fault? Maybe the detective was right. He was often right so she found no need for this to be an exception.

I know what you're all thinking: poor little Molly Hooper, surely it's not her fault! Well, my dears, will we get to find out? Not now because we are now about to see what our newly broken detective is doing. We rise up and out of this darkened street, leaving poor Molly sobbing to herself. We travel a few streets away to find our brilliant sleuth stumbling out of a tavern called 'The king's arms'.

Sherlock tumbled out of the lively inn, losing his footing more than once before he found a steady pace to walk at. His ever-so-clever brain swam, delusional by alcohol, fear and maybe even a splash of sadness, one could not be too sure.

Over and over like a stuck record, the memories replayed constantly in his mind. Moriarty…Richard Brook. The sleuth wasn't sure anymore, he just knew one thing, one secure little fact that clung to walls of his mind palace like mould:

His best and only friend was dead.

He knew he had become weak, been deprived of his only source of encouragement in life. He dared to admit he might have even felt something akin to love for that man, though he wasn't usually good with these emotional things.

With blurred vision the detective picked his way along the pavements and across empty roads. He didn't even know what time it was but he judged by the creeping sunrise that occasionally dappled through nearby windows it must have been late. It felt like years since he had last ended up like this but now it was becoming a daily routine.

His mind was useless, completely shut down. The mind palace that was once clean and well organised was crumbled. Its damp ridden walls were white-washed and flaked; it's ordered cabinets emptied around the interior from fits of rage or sadness. He was broken.

He slipped slightly over the edge of the pavement as he wiped the moisture from his face (he couldn't decipher whether it was sweat, tears or even blood and to honest he didn't care which it was)

His mind was buzzing. He dared to admit he felt confused, powerless even.

A memory sifted its way to the top of his brain and it hit him with full force. It was the memory of Moriarty shooting himself on the rooftop; right in front of Sherlock. The detective stopped still in his tracks, trying to erase the image from his mind but it was no use. This memory would often creep up on him from time to time but something about it was stopping him from ignoring it like he usually did. Those almost black eyes had stared right through him as the bullet had passed into the criminal's brain. Blood had gone everywhere. The sleuth could still smell it.

With shaking knees the great Sherlock Holmes toppled over slightly, throwing up onto the side of the road. Anyone passing would have accused him of being a drunken trouble-maker but we know he is throwing up for an entirely different reason, don't we?

The bile stung the back of Sherlock's throat causing him to gag another time and emit a tiny sob of despair. He was a mess to look at and he wagered he was even worse to smell; a mix of alcohol, sweat and the tinge of drug use wasn't an attractive scent. Not that he was even the smallest bit interested in attraction.

His only interest was dead now.

We keenly follow this despairing detective all the way to his flat, he is sobbing by the time he reaches the door and therefore has great difficulty unlocking it. Now, my dears, we follow him up into the main part of 221b. The once light and warm room is now cold and dark.

We watch as the detective slowly crumbles down in his usual fashion for the night. The stupid man simply sits in his armchair and stares into the darkness all night. If you had joined me earlier when I first started watching the detective after the incident, you will know far too well that this is all the man does all night. He doesn't sleep, barely eats and has no need for talking. Instead he handily replaces those common needs with other ones such as drugs, alcohol and depression, all in the strongest doses.

The night is growing older as we watch the darkness envelope this poor broken detective but I'm afraid we have to move away from him now, at least only for a little bit.

Because now, my dears, is where I come in.

I move away from the lamp post I have been leaning on, my shoulder feels stiff and cold now but I stretch it out. I take one last look into the dark window of 221b before heading further down the street, back into the lights of cafes and shops.

It was the kind of night that made me want to stop by my favourite whiskey store and by a good old Irish brand. But I know I can't afford to do that right now and I feel my stomach sink slightly.

I could be boringly cliché here and exclaim how the bright lights dazzle me but to be utterly honest I take no interest in them at all as I stroll into a small corner shop; the air conditioning slamming me in the face with the repulsive smell of stale air.

I shoot the man in the aisle to my right with the British army browning L9A1 I pull out the pocket of my suit jacket. I hear a lady scream and I shoot her as well. Both of the nuisances are dead: the man rather amusingly slumped over a large bag of crisps and the woman in the frozen aisle.

I make my way over to the counter. A petrified young man stammers at me so I wave the gun in his face as though to accentuate my point. The youth reaches for the cash register and I take great pride in whacking the brat around the face with the butt of my gun.

"Listen idiot. I don't need cash," I sigh calmly. The simpleton's eyebrows knit and I guess he is thrown off by my Irish accent. I'm getting bored quickly so I pull back the hammer on my gun just to move things along better. I bark, "I NEED YOUR HELP!"

I enjoy shouting through my sentences; the flicker of panic in their eyes sends a jolt of power through me. I smile at the youth impatiently. The coil of anger in my stomach is increasing as I watch this idiot try and process what I am saying. I'm starting to lose interest at a dangerous pace and am about to shoot the idiot when he blurts,

"W-what do you need me to do!?"

I lower my gun, slightly surprised. Now you're talking.

"Well, well, well," I growl. This is proving to be more interesting. I watch the youth gulp, his whole body quivers and it floods me with power. "I suppose we better formerly introduce ourselves then?" I question and there is a long silence between us before the lanky boy nods.

I inhale a deep breath of air and a smirk spreads across my face. I speak calmly,

"I'm Richard Brook and I need an interesting murder."

Hope you enjoyed it! If it goes well I will most likely be writing more! please leave reviews etc!

Also, check out my tumblr:

suicideofsherlock

if you want!


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